Custer’s Last Letter
The thump-thump-thump of whirling helicopter blades accompanied the flight of butterflies in my stomach as my comrades and I approached the Chu Pong Mountain in Western Vietnam’s Ia Drang River Valley. Out of a dozen or so choppers, our “Huey” led the way with Lieutenant Colonel Moore’s command group and most of B Company, 1st Battalion, 7th Air Cavalry. Ours would be the first boots on the ground for what would become the first major American action against the People’s Army of Vietnam.
We touched down at landing zone X-Ray just before 11 a.m. in an already sweltering valley. Artillery had pounded the area for half an hour prior to our arrival and the acrid smell of smoke hung heavily in the air, but we still needed to ensure the area was clear. My platoon fanned out to the west through the elephant grass to establish a perimeter. The landing zone was about the size of a football field surrounded by a lightly wooded area into which we advanced. Dripping sweat stung my eyes while my uniform clung to my body.
We hadn’t gone far when the lieutenant spotted a squad of North Vietnamese soldiers on our right flank. They were difficult to see with uniforms that blended in with the surroundings and I think if they hadn’t been moving, he wouldn’t have seen them. But he did and they must have known it because they took off running into the trees. Without hesitation we gave chase. In pursuit we came upon a clearing and rather than risk getting cut off from the battalion by going around it, we opted to go through it. That’s when all hell broke loose.
Enemy fire erupted from all sides as NVA troops appeared out of the trees. Bullets buzzed like bees past my head and churned up the ground around my feet. I remembered a story about Wyatt Earp standing stock still in a gunfight with a bunch of Cowboys. Bullets whizzed all around him, slicing through his coat, his hat, one even hit his boot heel, but none touched him. I thought there might be something to that idea, so I stood there shooting. The lieutenant alerted command we were becoming surrounded and a large group of enemy soldiers had gotten between us and the 1st Platoon. We were cut off. Other elements of the battalion radioed that they were pinned down by enemy fire as well and unable to reach us.
There were twenty-nine of us. We regrouped on a little knoll which we fought fiercely to protect. I mowed the enemy soldiers down but they kept on coming and the situation soon became desperate. Vietnamese troops overran one of our M60 machine guns after throwing grenades on the brave men manning it, and turned the weapon around on us. Earp be damned, I dove for cover and managed to get out of the way, but the lieutenant was hit. He threw his operations book to the Staff Sergeant with instructions to destroy it before letting the enemy get hold of it. He told him to redistribute the ammo, call in artillery fire, and try to break out the first chance he got. A true patriot, I heard him say, “If I have to die, I’m glad to give my life for my country.” Those turned out to be his last words. He was 24 years old.
The Staff Sergeant, a veteran of World War II, had no sooner taken command than he too was killed, the day before his birthday. The 2nd Squad leader, the forward artillery observer, lying next to me, began to rise, saying “I’ll get the platoon out of this trap.” He took a bullet to the head before he could get to his feet. I was closest to the radio so command fell to me. I grabbed it and started calling in artillery fire shouting, “Drop it right on top of us, that’s where the enemy is!”
Thank the Lord for the boys at Firebase Falcon. They dropped shells right where we needed them, effectively puting a wall around our position. Artillery does a lot to discourage enemy attacks. But I was told there would be no rescue attempt that night. With darkness closing in, the NVA would creep up on that little knoll of ours. We were in for a long night and in grave danger of being wiped out. While the artillery fire kept the enemy heads down, I told the guys to gather all the magazines they could find and pile them up in front of us. No one dared try to stand up anymore, forget about digging fox holes. I found my canteen had taken a direct hit. Glad I had a second one. I needed that water and it was the best I’d ever tasted.
Darkness in the jungle comes quickly and completely. In the inky blackness I could sense enemy soldiers approaching and I could hear them, though I couldn’t see any. The man next to me said he could smell them. My nerves were on edge but I remained alert, there was no way any of us nodded off. So, I cannot explain what happened next.
At about quarter to four in the morning, bugle calls sounded all around the perimeter. I figured it must be the signal for an attack, but then heard the thunder of hoofbeats. It made no sense; the NVA did not have horses. But into our clearing dashed two men on horseback. They stopped right in front of me. One of them carried a torch, by which I was able to see the other’s face and uniform. He was a large, blond man with long curly hair and a mustache. His outfit was like something out of Hollywood. He wore a dark coat with two rows of gold buttons and stripes on his sleeves. A plume in his cap signified him as a cavalry officer, his insignia that of a lieutenant colonel. In complete disbelief, I stood at attention and saluted, addressing him according to his rank.
“It is customary, Sergeant, to address an officer by the highest rank he has achieved. In case you were unaware, I was brevetted a major general during the war between the states.” He spoke slowly, a southern drawl stretching his words.
“My apologies, General, I hadn’t known, Sir.”
“Who’s in command of these men?”
“I am, Sir. Sergeant Savage, 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry, Sir.”
“Seventh Cavalry?” He cocked his head to one side. “What kind of uniform is that, Sergeant?”
“It’s adapted for jungle fighting, Sir.”
He turned in his saddle and looked around in the darkness. “Well, what’s the situation here, Sergeant Savage?”
“Well, Sir, we’re cut off from the rest of the battalion and surrounded. The enemy holds the high ground.” I paused and added, “Just like at Little Bighorn.”
The general leaned forward in the saddle, eyes focused intently on me. “What are you talking about?”
“Little Bighorn River, Sir. Gall and his fifteen hundred Indians in front, Crazy Horse up on the ridge with a thousand more waiting in ambush. The 7th tried to reach the crest of the ridge, but Crazy Horse got their flank. There were more warriors in that valley than the soldiers had bullets. We might be in the same situation here.”
“Well, Sergeant.” He shifted in his saddle again. “If the enemy is there, my men and I are going up that hill.” He pointed at the Chu Pong Mountain, crawling with NVA soldiers. “Bugler, sound the charge!”
The notes pealed through the darkness, followed by what sounded like hundreds of hoofbeats. Columns of cavalry galloped past me into the woods. I heard rapid gunfire amid frenzied shouts of “mā!”; the Vietnamese were screaming “ghost!” After a few intense moments, silence followed and I heard no more until daybreak.
In the early light we saw bodies strewn everywhere. Men from the 2nd Battalion, 5th Cavalry broke through to our position. I was never so happy to see anyone in my life. A lieutenant addressed me. “What happened here, Sergeant?”
I gave him the casualty report. “Nine men dead and it would have been a lot more if not for our medic. We have thirteen wounded, many alive because of him.” Then I told him about my encounter with General Custer.
“Custer? You think you saw that coward, Custer?”
“With all due respect, Sir, he was no coward. He may have been overconfident and shouldn’t have split his forces not knowing the strength of his enemy, but he was a brave soldier, Sir.”
“What do you mean, ‘brave’?”
“Little Bighorn, Sir.”
“Well, get your history straight, Sergeant. Custer never faced the enemy at Little Bighorn. He turned back to Fort Abraham Lincoln, with a story that men dressed in green told him Crazy Horse was waiting in ambush with a thousand Indians. He was charged with cowardice, court-martialed, removed from command, stripped of his rank, and plagued ever after by ridicule about Leprechauns.”
Before I could reply, another soldier ran up with a report. “Sir, the Chu Pong Mountain is cleared of the enemy. He’s pulled out during the night.”
“Pulled out? Where’d he go?”
“Don’t know, Sir. My men have gone all over that mountain. Lots of dead, but no sign of live NVA troops anywhere.”
My exhausted company was evacuated from the area and soon thereafter I was discharged from the Army. As the years went by the ghostly vision faded from my memory, until one day I was struck by the impulse to look up Custer. I walked to the library and picking up the Encyclopedia Britannica, flipped to the entry:
Custer, George Armstrong (b. Dec 5, 1839, New Rumley, Ohio, U.S.—d. June 25, 1886, New York City, N.Y., U.S.) U.S. Cavalry officer who distinguished himself in the U.S. Civil War (1861-1865) but later failed to engage Sitting Bull at the Little Bighorn River in Montana, allowing him, along with some 3,500 Indians, to escape to Canada.After graduation from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, N.Y. (1861), Custer served in the Civil War, attached to the staff of Gen. George B. McClellan. At 23 he became brigadier general of volunteers in command of a Michigan cavalry brigade. He distinguished himself in numerous battles…
…Custer, now a lieutenant colonel in command of one column of a projected two-pronged attack under the command of Gen. Alfred Terry, arrived near the Little Bighorn on the night of June 24, 1876. He was supposed to attack the next day but refused, believing the enemy too strong. He claimed that men dressed in strange green uniforms came to him in a dream and told him Crazy Horse was waiting in ambush.
As a result of his refusal to attack, the entire encampment, mostly Sioux and Cheyenne, was able to escape across the Canadian border before Gen. Terry’s arrival on June 26. Custer was court-martialed and stripped of his command. He died of smallpox in New York in 1886 and is buried at West Point.
I slowly closed the book. Scanning the shelves in the biography section I came across My Life on the Plains written by Custer himself. I opened it to the foreword:
To the men of the 7th Cavalry (present and future):Today I am considered a coward, a difficult label for a man such as myself to bear. Let me assure you, however, that I did not fear the Indians, but when a commander receives information about enemy strength or maneuvers, he is a fool to disregard it. I believe that somehow divine Providence intervened to bring me a message which was critical to our situation and if I had ignored it, I would have been responsible for leading my men into an ambush with disastrous results. That legacy I could not endure.
I am aware of the ridicule and jokes which are invoked by the story of how this information came to me. I can’t explain it. I don’t know who that strangely dressed sergeant was, but he knew who I was. He also knew of my plan to attack the Indians camped on the Little Bighorn River and that Crazy Horse would be waiting upon the ridge.
I am well aware that I lost my command and perhaps even the White House by not attacking that day, thereby letting Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse slip away. But I did not lead my men to slaughter. Perhaps someday the epithet ‘coward’ may be detached from my name but at least I will not be remembered as a fool who led his men into a massacre.
G. A. Custer
New York, NY
1885